


Storytime

by Thistlerose



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Missing Scene, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward finds his aunt Isabel's old shadow puppets and wants to know what they're for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storytime

"Mama?"

At the sound of her son's voice, Anne Neville looked up from her letter.

"Mama, what's this?" Edward was shambling toward her with his endearingly graceless gait, his arms wrapped around what appeared to be a bunch of sticks. "I found them in a chest." 

She was about to admonish him for poking around in old chests, when she recognized Isabel's stick puppets. She shut her mouth and, setting her quill down quickly, opened her arms to her son. His expression shifted from curiosity to mild bewilderment, but he came to her readily enough, and gave her the hug she wanted.

Anne pressed her lips to his dark hair and held him tightly for a moment. He was delicate, her Edward, and she worried about him terribly; she hated leaving him at Middleham, always slept poorly when she was away - except when Richard managed to distract her. She tried to take comfort in what Cecily Neville had confided to her once, that Richard had been a delicate child too, and on more than one occasion she'd feared losing him. But he'd outgrown the frequent afflictions of his youth, and was now a strong, sturdy soldier. Edward would do the same. He had to.

Anne gave her son another kiss upon the top of his head, then reluctantly loosened her arms. He stepped back from her, his face turned up to hers, his thin dark eyebrows pinched together in puzzlement. "Mama?" he said, and she realized her lips were trembling.

"Come on!" she said suddenly, brightly. She rose to her feet, smoothing down her skirt, and took Edward by the shoulders. Steering him toward the crackling fireplace, she went on, aware of the catch in her throat, "Your Aunt Isabel made those, many years ago. Do--" But she couldn't bring him to ask if he remembered his aunt. Edward hadn't even been three years old when Isabel died of childbed fever, and that had been two years ago.

"Come," Anne said again, more firmly. She sank to her knees on the fur that lay in front of the fire, and tugged him down beside her. "So, shall I show you what these are for?"

"Yes, Mama." Edward carefully laid the puppets on Anne's spread-out skirt. She lifted one and twirled it slowly in front of her face for a moment, before speaking.

"They're for telling stories," she said.

Edward watched her attentively, his dark eyes very bright in the firelight.

"So, this is the Bad King, the one who came before your uncle. Look over at the far wall, my love," she instructed him, pointing. "Look." Edward followed her finger, and his eyes grew wide at the sight of the Bad King's shadow, bobbing eerily against the gray stones. "Henry VI was the Bad King, and he—”

"Why was he bad?"

“Oh. Well—” _Some people just are_ , she thought, her mind going immediately to her brother-in-law. At the time of George’s execution, her young Edward had been just old enough to understand that his father was deeply upset about something – and to ask questions. She’d tried to explain that sometimes people did bad things and they had to suffer the consequences of their actions. “Why do they do bad things?” Edward had asked. “Because—” she’d said, and then found herself unable to finish the sentence. She’d never understood George, had never _wanted_ to understand him. In her eyes, he’d been a bad man, but Richard had loved him, and Richard generally exercised good judgment.

“Mama?”

Anne realized she’d been silent for too long. “Henry VI was a weak king,” she said finally, “unlike your uncle. He let himself be ruled by a bad, bad woman: the Bad Queen.” She fished among the cutouts in her lap until she found the right one, and held it aloft. Its shadow sprang onto the opposite wall, long and menacing. “Margaret, the She-Wolf of Anjou. Henry was the king, but the She-Wolf was the one who truly ruled England. She was very, very wicked.” She wasn’t sure how many of Margaret’s sins she ought to recount for Edward; he was bound to learn about them sometime, but she didn’t want to inflict nightmares upon him just then. 

“The She-Wolf had an evil son,” she went on quickly, wishing she could remember some of Isabel’s more imaginative descriptions; she had no flair for storytelling. “A demon prince with a heart of pure ice. He was a monster to everyone he met, but especially to his wife, the princess—” But here again she found herself unable to divulge very much.

Fortunately, Edward didn’t seem all that interested in the misdeeds of Anne’s dead and unlamented first husband. He said, “But they don’t rule England now.”

“No,” Anne said firmly. “Your father and his brothers stopped them. The Demon Prince was killed in a great battle, and the She-Wolf was banished forever from England. The Bad King was locked up in the Tower, where he fell ill and died.” There was a character missing from her story, of course: her own father. Someday her son would learn about that as well, but not, Anne decided, on this winter afternoon. “Your father’s brother Edward became king. And the princess married someone else, someone who was kind to her, who didn’t try to hurt her, and she was very happy. As was everyone, for Edward is a good king.”

_His queen, on the other hand…_

Edward grabbed two of the puppets, one for each hand, and waved them in front of the fire. 

“Slower, my love. Hold them so you can see the shadows on the wall. Just so.”

Gazing across the room at the shadows, apparently fascinated by their movements, Edward said, “Tell me another story. A different one.”

A different one? Anne sat back, stumped. Isabel had only ever told her one story – over and over again, at Anne’s request, though with new embellishments each time. It had never occurred to her that the puppets might be used to tell different stories, that they might be used to portray different characters entirely.

“I don’t…” she began.

But Edward had picked up on her uncertainty, and cut her off. “I’ll tell you one, Mama. This is a knight, and this is a knight. Sir Edward and…”

“Sir Richard?” she supplied.

“Yes. They’re knights,” he added, in case she’d missed that part.

Anne ruffled his messy hair. “Are they brave and true like King Arthur’s knights?”

Edward nodded.

“That’s good. I don’t like knights who aren’t brave. What do they do?”

“They fight dragons.”

“Well, of course!”

“And witches.” Transferring the two knight puppets to one hand, Edward retrieved the one that Anne had used for Margaret of Anjou. “This is the witch they have to fight.”

“I see,” she said, wondering if this particular witch had a name; Edward must surely have overheard her railing to Richard against Queen Elizabeth. She decided not to ask. “Do they also rescue ladies?”

Edward made a face. “Do they have to?”

Anne considered. “Well, I suppose some ladies can rescue themselves,” she replied equably.

“Good. This is how they fight the witch. Mama, look. No, over there, at the wall. See? They’re fighting.”

Anne watched the shadows clash, come apart, and clash again – so rapidly that it was difficult to tell which character was which, and who was fighting whom. Edward supplied the sound effects as well: “Clash, crash! Zing! Aaaaargh! That was the witch, Mama, casting a spell. She hit one of the knights.”

“Oh, no!”

“It’s all right, Mama. See? Sir Edward didn’t get hit, and he’s going to kill the witch and break the spell.”

“Praise the Lord,” murmured Anne piously. A movement in the doorway caught her eye and she glanced up to find Richard standing there, watching them, his arms crossed over his chest and a somber look on his pale face. His expression troubled her; was there bad news?

_Can’t we have some peace?_ Anne thought bitterly. _Just a little peace?_

But Richard smiled when he caught her eye; a brief, thin-lipped smile, but it reassured her. Nobody was dead and they weren’t at war.

It occurred to Anne that Richard still bore some trace of his difficult childhood; in addition to the pale skin, his eyes in certain lights appeared sunken, almost bruised, as if he had a fever. But that was illusion only; he was healthy and strong, as their son would grow up to be. 

Anne looked down at Edward, who was still engrossed in his story about knights and witches; apparently, Good had not yet prevailed over Evil.

But it would, she thought determinedly. Edward would grow strong, the peace would hold, and all would be well.

9/20/2013


End file.
